My slowest marathon finished up in the Olympic Stadium in Athens, Greece. Late Seventies. Most vivid memories: stiffening itinerant dogs poisoned in the hotel yard and walking into a souvenir shoppe and meeting the clerk who was from Chicago.
He was playing loud music, he was playing “Disco Disco Duck.”
Excerpted from my critically acclaimed, award-winning collection When Running Was Young & So Were We.
Plus a surprise NEW happy ending!!! – JDW
In the Spirit of Pheidippides
We file off the air-conditioned bus into the oppressive heat of the Greek
afternoon. These are the Plains of Marathon and there is no escape from the
sun.
There is some manner of locker-room-cum-outhouse structure that becomes
our refuge. Dark and dank, it is also crowded with runners seeking the cool
shade which the stone edifice provides.
What a motley assemblage. Marathoners from a dozen countries eye each other
in disbelief. They speak in a number of tongues and, without understanding more
than one, the listener is aware many of them ask the same questions: “What are
we doing here? Why are we doing this?”
Olympian Don Kardong shares a bench with two Greek joggers. One guy’s thigh
must weigh as much as Don’s entire body. They eye each other quizzically.
Another Greek looks at Kardong’s specially designed Nike racing shoes; Don
examines the Greek’s high top basketball sneakers. Both men are incredulous.
The Greek has glued – really – approximately one inch of foam rubber (kitchen
sponge?) to the soles of his tennies. The mind boggles. Suppose this guy runs
2:15 in those suckers? Jim Fixx and Ned Frederick seem to be contemplating
exclusive distribution rights for the U.S.A.
Too soon we must go back into the heat. No one warms up, it seems redundant.
Some entrants are already beginning to show signs of heat exhaustion. Other
runners have begun to shuffle and limp even before the starting gun sounds. The
course is that tough.
Curiously, as we gather at the starting line, no one wants to stand in front of the
field. It’s almost as if the runners somehow hope to postpone the misery.
They can’t.
The gun sounds and we flee for our lives. Unknown F. Harry Stowe is the early leader,
but he is soon overtaken by Kardong and Chuck Smead. A mysterious
Ethiopian follows. He appears too large to be world class, but marathoners have
learned to expect much from these Lions of the Desert. There is a rumor that he
is even coached by an Albanian. It just doesn’t seem fair.
I tuck in behind two Greeks as we start off into a headwind. Two other
Americans – John Ayforgette and Spencer Chapman – accompany us. The pace
is good, too good. Although we haven’t yet run a mile, we have – speaking for
myself – already signed our own death certificates. We are cruising along at
6:10 pace, jockeying with the Greeks and each other.
We are crazy. The official temperature is 81 degrees F. F’in hot. But they must
have that thermometer under a rock in the shade. My body is already smoldering
and I begin to wonder if a human being can spontaneously combust. I hear cows
do it all the time.
We dispose of the Greeks, Spencer drops back, and John and I are alone behind
the studs. At the first aid station, we both holler out for water. We gulp and
dump the remainder over our heads.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” I hear a scream. Due to the language barrier, John has
been handed a large paper cup filled with heavily sugared lemonade. He can’t
take sugar in a race – instant cramp . He is also very sticky.
Now I am alone. Of course, in a marathon, you are always alone. Even in the
largest events, the runner is alone… alone with his body and mind, alone with the
distance.
Alone with the pain and the glory. I know I’m running too fast. Before the ten
kilometer mark, I have already experienced two or three of the early warning
sign of heat exhaustion. My goose flesh has goose flesh.
Just twenty miles to go.
Every little town provides a boost. The peasants are out en masse (which is
French for the Greek word meaning “in a group”). Those who are not on their
feet at roadside wave from their windows or from the open air taverns. The
spectators appear to be enjoying themselves more than I am.
Many of the women seem attractive but then I left home a week ago. I should
not be noticing. I should be concentrating on the race, but it’s too late and I
know it.
At fifteen kilometers, my race is over. My lack of conditioning, the
oppressive heat, an imprudent early pace, a nagging injury and those grinding
hills have reconfirmed one of my strongest beliefs – you can’t fake a marathon.
And it’s a shame. I am running in sixth place. The fourth and fifth position runners
are just ahead, staggering in their search for shade. Hell, they look worse than
even I do.
The Ethiopian, who had the audacity to challenge Chuck and Don, has
paid the price. This Saharan strider has demonstrated that one’s national
heritage has little to do with the ability to run fast marathons. So large and
powerful in Marathon, he seems much smaller now on the road to Athens.
Who am I to talk? Or whisper hoarsely? I can’t even swallow. I could have “easily”
placed third in my first international marathon, if I was only prescient. If only I
had known no one would run fast today. Oh, if only…
If only I didn’t feel so bad. At twenty kilometers, without consciously deciding to, I
screech to a halt at an aid station. (It was a muted screech… more like a
“skreessh.”) They are not offering what I need. What I need is a transfusion, but
the Greeks’ idea of refreshment is lemon quarters. One suck on that fruit and my
entire body will turn itself inside out. Whoosh!!
Feeling dizzy, I start to lean across an ice box. A SEGAS (Greece’s version of the
AAU) official grabs me.
“No, no, no! No rest! Run, run!,” he shouts, as he takes me by the shoulders and
shoves me down the road.
He reminds me of my dad.
And I’m out on my feet. I don’t really hurt – I don’t think I do – but I can barely
move. The heat has drained my body, my muscles, my mind.
Less than fourteen miles to go. Only fourteen miles. Just 14,000 strides… if I could stride.
I pretend I can. No one is fooled, least of all myself. So, I shuffle along.
At twenty-five kilometers, I hear my first split. I don’t understand it, I just hear it. The
timekeeper’s thick accent and the cobwebs in my head obliterate any
comprehension. Doesn’t matter. I practically crawled the last two miles and I
shall crawl some more.
The progression of runners who pass me begins to resemble Macy’s Easter
parade. They all have a kind word for me, and why shouldn’t they? My very
appearance demands sympathy.
I’m not really cognizant of my surroundings. I know it’s hot and hilly and I hurt. I
know that. The countryside has become a metropolis. I am running at a funereal
pace, walking really as much as jogging. I begin to fantasize. Will my life flash in
front of me like some deathly farewell?
I wish I had done more.
One huge hill looms in front of me. I am sure if I can get to the top of that one
huge hill, I can finish. It is literally all downhill from there. I slow to a walk.
Soon I hear footsteps. Two guys walking faster than I am walking. Then Dr. Joan
Ullyot, running at the same pace at which she began. There is something
Medusan about her. I look into her eyes and turn to stone. The other two men
see her and break into a jog, chasing up the hill after her… can’t let a woman beat
them.
I can. I can let a woman beat me. No problem. Not that I am “letting” Joan beat
me; she’s doing it by herself, by her strength and wisdom. Me, by my stupidity
and hubris.
The pain would be incredible if I didn’t believe it. But I do. I think of George
Sheehan’s maximal stress test and I, too, wonder: “When can I see the baby?” I
start to laugh and then I cry.
So helpless in the middle of an Athenian highway with horns beeping and people
clapping at intersections and taverns, and I hurt so much. Dismayed. Somehow
ashamed. More sorry for myself than anything else. I wanted so much to run
well. Burnt away from the heat, ground down by the pain, my facade has
dropped away. Crashed. I am exposed. The Greeks see my skeleton, my insides.
They see me.
Dizzy again, I ease my way up to a refreshment station. (I long ago figured out
there was little actual aid to be had.) There’s a large bucket of dirty water, sponges
floating around. I stick my head down into the bucket, and I am alive again,
though barely. Five miles to the finish line and I will walk the entire distance if I
have to.
I’d sorta like to walk the rest of the way. But, how can I walk when people are
cheering and applauding? So, I try to run and I can run for perhaps twenty yards
before the pain becomes unbearable.
“Hey, American! I take you to the Stadium – no charge,” yells a cabbie.
No, thank you. It’s too late now. I can’t quit. The pain has subsided and I try to
run again. Forty yards this time. Forty yards closer to that damn medal. I’d have
to feel better to die.
I can sense every muscle, every joint, every nerve. My body is working like some
poorly conjured Rube Goldberg construction… slowly… piece… by… piece.
But I am going to finish. There is absolutely no doubt about that. I have won the
battle, and the realization seems to lift my spirits, if not my legs.
Suddenly, I’m “slapping five” with giggling Greek children. I even stop at an
intersection to shake the traffic cop’s hand.
“Efharisto, my friend,” I exclaimed, exhausting my knowledge of the spoken
Greek language. The cop’s reply is lost in the lack of translation, though the look
on his face seemed to transcend cultural barriers – “Let go of my hand.”
Just as quickly as it arose, my elation dissipates. Two hundred yards to go and I
am walking. How pathetic.
I start to jog and, for the first time in ten miles, I am actually running. My stride is
probably six inches long and I am not moving fast. But you could describe the
movement as running. You could if you were kind.
I can see the finish line now, 100 yards down the cinder track. It was supposed
to be such a thrill, such a marvelous experience, entering this site of the first
modern Olympics. As close as I’ll ever get to being an Olympic athlete.
But it’s just another finish line. The race may have been special, but the finish line
is now just the end of my struggle. If I get there, I can stop.
Sobbing, what’s left of me crosses the line. I blubber apologies for my poor
performance, as a beautiful woman drapes that precious medal around my neck
and someone else wraps a blanket around my torso. I can hardly stand and I can’t
stop whimpering. Steve Ayforgette (no relation) hands me a beer and the pieces
– ever so slowly – start coming back together.
I learned something running in the footsteps of a legend. I learned I do not
ever want to go through anything like that again. I had meant to recreate
that old Greek’s run, not his demise.
As race winner Chuck Smead offered, “Now I know why Pheidippides died.”
Probably drank too much lemonade.
-30-
Just for fun, I am including a rare, oh so rare, photo of Mr. Kardong ahead – temporarily no doubt – of one Steve Prefontaine.
Pre. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.
Following a lustrous literary career, Dingy became a race promoter and philosopher of some note.
It was Don Kardong who told us, “Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos.”
Some gold medal thinking right there.
Don Kardong finished fourth at Montreal in 1976.
Barely missed a medal, while an East German doper claimed the gold.
To my mind, just makes the story better.
I wrote this account immediately upon returning home to Salem, Oregon. Have zero memory of my good buddy, the rich and famous Jim Fixx even being on the trip. Don’t know what that says about me. Chuck Smead gave me the winner’s trophy, which sits about five feet away as I type. The plaque is starting to peel away with age.